Part 42 (1/2)

Purple mist bloomed from the tomb walls as his brain struggled to make use of too little oxygen in his blood. That same purple flooded from the iron doors, forming death's head shapes that ferociously darted forward, their jaws opening wide.

He paused for a second, allowing his oxygen starved brain time to recover. When his eyes cleared he saw something that enclosed him in an icy membrane. He stared at it, wondering if his over-heated imagination played yet another trick.

One of the crypt doors yawned wide open. Beyond it, a gulf of darkness, oozing with vile promise. He blinked hard. The image of the door remained. No, you're not dreaming this. Someone's opened the tomb.

His eyes raked the stonework above the doorway to find a plaque that named the family interred there:ELLERBY.

You will leave her by the sepulchre of Posthumous Ellerbya That's what the last letter demanded of him. Now here was the Ellerby tomb. Open wide. Like a hungry mouth demanding food.

No. Not a chance in h.e.l.l. You're not getting hold of my daughter, Baby Bones. She's staying put. You've bitten off more than you can chew this time. Herbert Kelly beat you. I'm going to beat you, too.

He gazed, hypnotized by the entombed darkness while the silence called his name. Or so it seemed as he stood there, heart pounding, his breath sounding dry as bones.

Moving slowly now, he approached the tomb.

No, don't go inside. Keep moving. Go straight on bya Darkness called his name: Johna Johna we are waitinga He pressed his lips together. Shook his head. Purple growths expanded from the tomb doorway, like drops of blood hitting clear water. His eyes burnt hot as embers in his head, straining to make sense of formless darkness.

Keep walking, John, he told himself. Walk by the open doorway; put it behind you. Find the old man. Then drive Elizabeth away from this place.

But the rasp of his breathing dissolved, then reformed into words in his ears.

No, John. See what's inside. There's something you need to see. Something secret. Something that's been buried here for a long, long timea John moved along the alleyway between the crypts. He intended walking straight on, but another set of feet carried him that night. Before he knew it he was inside the vault. Beneath him, thick dust. All around him, soft darkness. A darkness that gently burst with those purple blooms. He breathed deeply trying to squeeze that all-important oxygen into his brain. Momentarily, the pain in his side vanished. He stood there, feeling the stillness of the century old tomb, and the silence that lay its heavy hand upon the place.

Strangely, he didn't use the penlight. For he sensed he stood on the bridge between ignorance and knowing. And at that moment, standing in darkness in that place of the dead was infinitely preferable to seeing what lay around him. There were more than coffins in the tomb. There was something else, too. A something he did not want to see.

He listened to the dark music of his respiration. A pulse in his brain thudded. He wanted time's maggot to stop right there. But he knew it wouldn't. Midnight rolled with a dreadful inevitability toward him.

Do it, John. It was his own inner voice. Clear. Calm. Insistent. You've got to see what is in here. He switched on the penlight.

There, revealed by the splash of yellow light, were the oblong boxes that held the bones and dry skin of the Ellerby men, women and children. Sprays of funeral flowers, now little more than patterns of dust, tied with black ribbon, still lay on coffin lids.

John played the light into the far corner. He knew that he'd find another occupant of the tomb here. When he saw it lying against a mould encrusted wall it no longer came as a surprise.

He stepped forward, keeping the halo of light around it, taking in the details-the suit of clothes, the canvas bag used as a pillow, a bottle of blue gla.s.s that once held poison. The white Panama hat beside a fleshless head.

It's been a long time, Mr. Kelly. But we meet at last. The words flowed with toxic menace into his brain. He gazed down at the bones of Herbert Kelly, one time teacher, one time resident of the Water Mill and John knew everything.

Herbert Kelly had lied. He'd deceived everyone. His daughters, his wife, his neighbors, even one John Newton who'd moved into the man's very home seventy years later. Kelly never had gone to Canada. He'd only set clues to make it look as if he'd fled there with daughter, Mary.

The truth was very much darker. Kelly had received that last letter too. You will leave little Mary by the sepulchre of Posthumous Ellerbya And, when all his options had expired, he'd met its grim demand. No wonder Kelly had wept against the apple tree in the orchard.

Briefly, John's mind flew back seventy years. He saw with awful clarity the events of that night when Herbert Kelly had crept into his daughter's room, roused her from her bed, whispered they were going on an adventure, while trying to mask his own sense of dread and horror with a smile. Then, with a suitcase in one hand, holding his daughter's tiny hand in the other, he'd led her to the cemetery. An influenza outbreak was raging in the village. So many lives hung in the balance. Herbert Kelly was the only one who could save thema And so, talking soothingly to his daughter, he'd walked up the night-darkened lane to the Vale Of Tears.

Perhaps a former pupil living in Canada had sent the telegram on his behalf. But what did the details of his deception matter now? Other than he'd thought it important to leave his family and neighbors believing he'd taken his daughter to start a new life in another country. But in reality he'd taken his daughter to the cemetery, to the appointed place at the appointed time.

What then?

Those events at midnight seventy years ago were entombed in mystery, too. Except that this gentle-hearted schoolteacher had not permitted his daughter to meet the inevitable alone. He'd gone with her, held her hand, comforted her, spoke gently to her as that dreadful time arrived.

What had they seen as midnight struck?

John gazed into those eyeless sockets of Kelly's. They exposed the gravely remnants of his brain but, of course, the man's memories of that night had vanished with his final breath.

Once it was over, however, Kelly must have drank the poison, removed his white Panama hat, then laid down here praying death would come quickly, while trying so very hard not to recall what had become of his daughter. Even so, he must have felt his own tears roll down his cheeks in the darkness.

Now, fast-forward seven decades.

John Newton stood in the Ellerby tomb. Barely two hours separated him from midnight. Zero hour. What now, John? The question ricocheted around the inside of his skull. What now?

At that moment he heard a cry. Turning, he stumbled as fast as he could from the tomb.

A terrified voice came from above: ”No, I won't goa I won't go!”

CHAPTER 40.

1.

Robert Gregory gripped the old man's wrist. He pulled him toward the gra.s.sy slope that overhung the edge of the cliff in a ragged fringe.

”I won't go.” Stan Price's voice echoed from the gravestones. ”I won't go!”

Robert Gregory sweated. His father-in-law was a tough old dog. Robert had been starving the man for months. But would he die? Would he h.e.l.l! Now he fought like a tiger to prevent himself being hauled over the edge of the cliff. d.a.m.n him.

”Don't keep Harry waiting,” Robert panted. ”Come on, Dad. This is the way.”

But the deception was over. Stan Price had snapped back into lucidity. His eyes were sharp now as he looked round the darkened cemetery. ”No. I know what you're trying to do, Roberta let go of me!”

”No frigging way. You're going over the edge.” Robert's heart thudded. So close now. Soon all the money would be his. He pulled harder, sliding the old man across the gra.s.s. All he needed now was to position him so he was on the lip of the cliff. Then one last shovea In the gloom Stan's blue eyes locked onto his. Suddenly he began to speak in a loud clear voice, ”Robert. I know you got the letters. You ignored them. You didn't know what would happen. You've not done what you should.”

”Shut up.”

”You got the letters, didn't you? They asked for beer and chocolate. You thought it was children playing tricksa”

”Shut up!” Sweating, Robert struggled to pull the old man closer to the dark void above the crypt roofs. A nice, straight drop. Right down onto hard stone.

”You should have done what the letters demanded, Robert. You'll suffer for it now.”

”Get over here, you old dog. C'mon!”